


i am not what i am

by ephemeralstar



Series: maybe sprout wings [7]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Character, Character Study, Gen, I only make characters that are cryptids in the right light, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 05:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20688263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/ephemeralstar
Summary: You hired him for a job that you wish didn't have to do, but you know better than to ask too many questions. He accepts your offer without even hearing your reasoning, and you can't see his face properly. You ask his name. He says the less you know about each other, the better.





	i am not what i am

You hired him for a job that you wish didn't have to do, but you know better than to ask too many questions. He accepts your offer without even hearing your reasoning, and you can't see his face properly. You ask his name. He says the less you know about each other, the better. 

It's a strange pattern, a coincidence you've noticed, that it's always overcast when you see him. Maybe it's not a coincidence, maybe even the sun's fears to look upon him. He hides in plain sight surprisingly well for a man who looks like the he could take a harpoon to the chest without even flinching, though you chalk that up to his apparel, and his quiet nature. 

He is efficient, both in his work and with his words, but once the job is done, you feel like you'll never see him again. Maybe it's for the best.

Guards knock on your door a week after, holding a wanted poster for a pirate, a murderer, a hurricane of a man. The detailing on the tusks seems familiar, but the name beneath reads '_Stormbringer_' and your breath catches in your throat. You knew that name, knew the stories you'd hear at the tavern about the pirate who lost his crew and his ship, and who was killing his way back to the top, come hell or high water. Or both. 

You don't recognise the half-orc in the sketch, but you should.

* * *

A woman on the street challenges you to a game of chance. Her dice are pink, her woolen cardigan is pink, she is soft and unassuming, and promises a silver piece of you can beat her at it. 

She loses the first game, looking put out, but promises she'll try harder, and challenges you again. And loses. One more round, all or nothing; five gold. It's an expensive wager, but you're cocky in the face of her earlier defeats. 

Something about her isn't quiet right, something about her smile feels off. You catch the sunlight glinting off a mostly obscured set of scale by her collar, and you think her eyes flash gold for a moment. When she wins, it doesn't come as much of a shock as it should have. She gives you that snake charmer smile. You smile back and hand over your week's wages; she won them after all. 

The owner of the tavern you're staying at calls her Wickett, and tells you to stay away from her. Across the room, she's solitary, sitting in a booth with food untouched in front of her, fiddling with a few scraps of metal. She's always fiddling. A man covered in scratches sits two stools away and tells you she isn't right. He'd tried to get his money back, went to face her as she was packing up for the night, and-

Gold eyes. Burning gold eyes, like staring at a dragon. The tinker toys she'd been fiddling with began to rise into the air around her as her expression was blank and unfeeling. The creations chased him home, and when he went to speak to her the following day, she smiled as if she hadn't a care in the world, or a memory of the event.

She leaves town before you do.

* * *

He's painfully forthcoming when asked about himself, but as he speaks, an army of ants crawls from one nostril, across his beak, disappearing into his feathers. His leg is a wasps nest, and you can't focus on what he's saying for the buzzing your mind has latched onto.

He wears a dragon's skull like a crown rather than a helmet; there's a harpy and erinyes flanking him like he's someone important. He speaks their languages like he's been doing it his whole life, but when he opens his mouth too far, you can see acid bubbling at the back of his throat.

What is he? Even he doesn't seem to know. The wasps hum ominously. The gold lining of his cloak is splattered with blood. You don't know who's. You don't ask. 

He says he's Crackers. You don't ask for clarification on that either.

You hear from a friend that someone attacked the harpy a few nights later. The attacker is never found, and now the harpy is accompanied by what appears to be a chain devil when she's not with Crackers.

No-one in town calls them monsters anymore. They're not allowed.

* * *

You don't remember meeting her but she knows your name. You think you _should_ remember her, tiny and distinctive with hair as wild as a forest and big, bulky goggles over her eyes.

She seems honest, her eyes on the sky. Though she tells you her name, you both seem to know you won't remember it. She tells you no-one ever does. She says she could tell you she's killed a man, that she's really a demon, that she's a figment of you're imagination, and the moment you'd left her company you'd forget all about it. About her. 

She's got a high, unassuming voice, it matches her little, unassuming figure, but you feel the inexplicable urge to run. She's still looking at the stars.

She seems to get bored of your silence, of your frozen panic, and tells you to have a nice night. Tells you she'll see you again tomorrow. Then she's gone, and you're not quite sure who you were talking to, just that someone had stopped you on your walk... Maybe.

Maybe you're imagining things.

But then you meet a woman the following night, and you don't think you've ever met her before, but she knows your name. 

She tells you her name is Sprog, and something in you knows you'll have a hard time remembering it. 

You tell her you like her goggles. She takes them off. Inky blackness dotted with the reflection of light from above. You meet her gaze; the stars stare back. 

Tonight she intrigues you, rather than frightens, but you don't realise you've done this dance before.


End file.
